Page 52 of Crave

“That’s my good girl.”

“What about right now?” I swung my legs up to hook my ankles on his broad shoulders. My cheerleading days had ended when I graduated college, but I was still flexible. Strong. Patrick tried to cover his reaction, but I could read him as well as he read me.

“Look at me. I’m all —” I lifted my ass toward him, shamelessly displaying my arousal. “And you’re all —” I stared at the unyielding bulge in his slacks. “Excited.”

As frosty as his eyes were, the chill evaporated into hot lust. Scalding my body, stoking my need. He swallowed. I lived for the moments when Patrick lost his composure. When his control cracked.

“All you need to do is unzip your pants, baby,” I coaxed. “You can be fucking me in two seconds. Do you really want to stop now?”

The muscles flexed in his shoulders as he crouched over me. I felt so exposed suddenly, bound by the rope, caged by his arms and legs. Patrick always felt huge on top of me — inside me. But it wasn’t just his size that made me shiver and shake. He had a way of fucking me at times, hard and careless, that made me feel little.

Little, and shatteringly aroused.

Patrick gave me a long look. He got off the bed, walked to the head, and took my hair in a tight grip.

I tried to jerk my head up, but he pressed it against the pillow. The pressure only got me more excited — my belly clenching, my pussy fluttering.

When he twisted his hand in my hair, I winced.

“Maybe I should leave you here for a while, Christina. There are dishes to do…bills to pay…you can think about how to behave for me while I take care of our household.”

Dammit.

What had I started by summoning the wolf?

“Please untie me,” I said in a small voice. A breathy voice, the voice that came out only with Patrick. “I’ll behave. You don’t have to do all the dishes.”

His face softened a fraction. He unknotted the rope around my wrists. “Go take a cold shower. I’ll see you afterwards.”

“You first.” I looked pointedly at his bulging crotch. “You look like you need it.”

I was hoping for a smack on the ass, or at least a smile, but Patrick was having none of it.

“Go,” he said. “Cool off. And don’t even think about touching your little pussy. I’ll know if you do.”

The order only made me hotter. Just the experience of being commanded by Patrick did me in. I considered putting up a fuss, for fun, but Patrick’s cool blue gaze made me think better of it.

I stalked off to the bathroom. When I emerged, the kitchen was clean and all the dishes were done.

I found Patrick in our room. He’d changed into a T-shirt and boxers and was sketching in bed.

“What are you drawing?” I leaned over him, kissing the top of his head. My long wet hair dangled in his face, and my breast brushed his cheek.

“Us,” he said without looking up. “Put some clothes on.”

I snorted and pulled a short nightie and some fresh panties from our dresser. Climbing into bed beside him, I snuggled up. “Chaste enough for you?”

He laughed and put his arm around me.

“Sure. You like it?” He showed me his sketchpad.

Normally, Patrick drew from life. Me, architecture, models in art class. Our bedroom walls were covered with his framed drawings. He loved to draw me after we had sex; a dozen versions of a thoroughly-fucked Christina gazed down at us from the walls.

But recently, he’d started drawing from his imagination. I stared at the fantastical image taking shape on the page: a half-naked, dark-haired bride.

Her ethereal veil and elegant bouquet made a sharp contrast to her bared breasts and arched back. Her pure white gown, unbuttoned and bunched around her hips, fell in folds to the ground. She was caught about the waist by a huge, shadowy figure that could be a man or a beast.

His fingers in her mouth. His hand ruining her gorgeous hairdo. Her expression of ecstasy.

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